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As the sun drowns on the thin line formed by the sea, dusk breaks out in violet hues. The beauty is ironic, as a palette of lavender and lilac combines, greyer tones slowly mixing into the horizon as darkness begins to engulf them. Before the lingering violet disappears, the white chalk cliffs appear and most of the soldiers fight for a spot to watch. Their cheers have long been muted but they all watch in contempt, boat by boat, as home comes closer.
Alex stays inside. The softness of the blanket they gave him scratches against his calloused fingertips, and he pulls on it tighter. He won’t see the beaches, the cliffs or the waiting fisherman. He can’t bear their eyes, their pity, or the own shame that’s been bubbling in his stomach all ride long. A few steps away Tommy’s fidgeting with a piece of rope, turning it against his fingers over and over. Occasionally he glances up and meets his gaze, but instead of the accusing iciness, they only hold exhaustion.
The rest of the men present in their pitiful attempt of survival are either dead or outside, feasting on the diminutive hope that England’s shores bring. All except one.
The French man- French boy, is asleep. His hair has dried and the salt has made the saggy black tufts of hair splatter against his forehead, which is still pale under the moonlight. He might pass as an unfortunate corpse, but there is a faint rise and fall on his chest. It's ragged, uneven, but it's there along with a noiseless beating heart.
And yet it's not enough to soften his piercing guilt.
Nothing will help him, nothing will wash away the sins brought on by desperation and survival, not even plunging into the blinding sea to save a man he condemned himself. He can still feel the waves crashing against him and the water filling his throat as he dived back into the sinking ship. When they pulled them both into the vessel, wet and cold, his heart shattered when Gibson’s chest remained imobile. The frozen lungs only needed a few seconds to spasm and begin working again, but in the instant of presumed death he could have thrown himself into the oily currents.
But now the french boy is asleep, and his apologies will only strike Tommy.
“I’m sorry- about the boy. Didn't want to hurt him.” he mutters, mostly to himself, but the other soldier looks up and he regrets saying anything at all.
Tommy just stares, but in his eyes the whole world is cursing at Alex for killing a man.
- - - - - - - - - -
By the time the train reaches the station in London, Alex knows the boy's name is Philippe Guillet, he grew up in some damned French village by the name of Dourdan, and he has no family in England. Most of this information he acquired by listening to Tommy talking, mostly with hand motions for he doesn't speak a lick of french, but Alex understands. Whether it's the time he spent in a foreign country or the silly lessons his own sister gave him, it's enough to understand.
Philippe is shy, scared, resembling a small blackbird with broken wings that shies away in his seat, almost as if the patterned cloth of the train compartments is trying to swallow him. His hands still hold an empty mug of coffee given to him by the blind man on the shore, and his fingers tap noiselessly against the ceramic.
Though Alex pretends to be sleeping, he listens. Clings to the curved accent and occasional english word, hoping that within them the secret to redemption will open up to him. But when Tommy falls asleep and he wets his lips to apologise, Phillipe is lost in the greenery of the english forests, lighting up with sunrise.
The sight is oddly beautiful. He’d never admit it, but there's something so elegantly simple about the boy’s pale skin, his accentuated eyes that jump from tree to tree, wide awake, as if any sign of exhaustion might drag him down to the boat and profound waters again.
So he stays silent.
- - - - - - - - - -
Though Tommy sticks to him throughout the rest of the war like some puppy or baby bird, he doesn't meet Philippe again until the end of the war. Apparently he's kept contact with some other soldiers, and when they meet again he has become a stranger to his own squadron.
The other boys, now turned men with both shell shock and age, joke around with the frenchman while he watches. Alex plays it off with a suave demeanor, showing little if no interest towards Guillet and his honey accent or his stormy eyes or how his hair is finally clean and falls in dark waves.
He’s not in love, not in the way that Tommy made him swear upon his life to keep secret, but his heart aches to walk up and shove everyone off until they both have some privacy. And yet he stays frozen in place with cheap beer in his glass and a waitress of invisible traits flirting to his right.
Eventually night wears down and soldier by soldier they march out the door, and his beer keeps refilling and there's fog in his brain. He watches with morbid fascination as Tommy’s hand rests on Guillet’s shoulder for more than decent demand and how they make each other laugh, and how Guillet’s eyebrows crinkle just slightly when he smiles. Perhaps if he hadn't felt back all those years ago, that beam would be gone along with the hundreds of men drowned in Dunkirk.
But the three of them are here, alive and breathing.
He keeps watching and her feet nearly stampede over to the couple when two other men walk up to their table and start accusing them of indecency, of crime. Tommy looks hurt and Guilllet, twisted winged blackbird Guillet looks broken and his hand retreats from Tommy's and the crinkles in his eyes are long gone.
Alex has no recollection of who actually insulted Guillet, but he remembers his fist slamming into a blond's cheek with such force that a loud crack silences the bar for the short seconds it takes to understand their predicament. Immediately the others are upon him and he bites, kicks, rakes his fingernails across any vest or skin he can reach. The pain that spasms his body as they overpower him numbs down when he yanks a tuft of hair and someone shrieks out, but the victory is short lived. Again and again he fights like a pathetically arrogant little animal, with no clear chance of winning, with a nose that is surely crooked for life, with blood flushing down his undershirt like a broken pipe.
But it stops. Nearly abruptly, and he’s still grappling the air until two hands hoist him up.
He must be a pitiful sight with the rotting shirt and acidic breath, legs barely coordinating and tripping against the few steps that form a path out of the bar. Alex screams again, cursing, screeching, and though the door has closed he can still hear their taunting, youthful laughter. They'll mock him eternally for his broken knuckles and whisky grin, and he’ll throw bottles until a road of crushed crystal follows him.
“Alexandre, arrête de-”
“You know I can’t fucking understand you, Gibson.” he spats, but the boy is carrying him away and Tommy's by his side.
When they're finally out of the bar and in some alley Tommy bids goodnight and Alex can hear the pain in his voice, metallic and thick. But he’s too drunk to say anything and vaguely acknowledges the presence next to him until he remembers.
A dozen men hid in the boat, one of them not english, one of them pointing a rifle in accusation. It’s him behind the rifle and Philippe Guillets eyebrows are creased but not from laughter or joy, but with pure fear.
“I'm sorry.” he whispers, but nobody says anything and he tugs on the man's coat. “I’m sorry- I'm so so sorry, you hear? I’m-”
He slams against his knees and promptly vomits all over the cobblestone street.
By the time he comes back to reality he’s at home and only the heavens know how Philippe got his address. He hears a presence in his kitchenette and in his drunk, stupid, stupid, stupid mind he only figures to take the handgun from the left drawer in the living room.
As clean as the apartment seems, he can't help but feel hands clutching at his throat- he wasn't that drunk when they started fighting, but the blood in his nose and guilt in his chest and blinding him into a rage that might be the death of them both.
As fucked up as everything is, he can still see Guillet's face in the fluorescent, flickering light, and though it lacks any expression other than concern, he wants to beg.
He presses the handgun against Philippe's hands, pointed at him and they're so close he can feel the rhythmical breaths against his cheek.
“Kill me.” he whispers “Kill me like I wanted to kill you.”
Philippe’s eyes flood with such sadness that he’s tempted to step away and press the gun against his forehead himself, but before he even begins to move the guns on the floor he's falling. His head clangs against the carpeted floors loudly and Philipps phantom eyes are worrying over him as he fades away.
When he blinks away he’s on a couch and his head is bandaged with precise, sterile white clothes. There’s a cup of cold broth on the coffee table and the air is cold, empty. It doesn't take long for him to realize that there are no coats on the hanger except his, and the scent of Philippe Guillet is long gone from the apartment. He curls back up into the cushions and doesn't hesitate to black out.
- - - - - - - - - -
The sun is setting again in its lavender glory, but instead of turbulent waters, their feet are planted on the lush green gardens of some soldier boys' wedding reception. Years have passed with months of recovery and nights of nightmares, but they're all alive and breathing in some quiet miracle.
He can't recall the groom’s name but not due to alcohol , he's only had one glass of champagne but his mind is still perplexed by the scene of oh so many happy smiles. For some reason the illegality of Tommy and Philippe’s intimate dance doesn't register in anyone's minds, and he just watches with perked lips.
They’re rifles form a circle around the boy and his frame is so agitated his knuckles whiten at their grip on the ladder. Only Tommy holds a shred of humanity and steps in between them both, but Alex’s teeth are bared and his instincts go feral.
Relaxed, happy, Philippe with his smiles and exotic enchantment walks up to him and he can only tense his shoulders. He’s been pushing back this confrontation for years and there is no escaping the inevitable.
“I saw you watching us.” he says as if there’s no mountain of pain between them both.
Alex nods but before he replies his glass is shattering and the whole world is drowning him and-
Only Philippe Guillet notices the blood on his fingers as men and women keep dancing.
“Alexandre-”
“I am sorry,” he whispers. “Back in the boat, back in the Channel, I killed you.”
He vaguely wonders if he’ll have to remind the boy of their experience but the other one nods in acknowledgement.
“I never blamed you, since it bothers you so much. You were just surviving.”
But so were you. So were all of us.
“Alexandre.”
He snaps his face up and Phillipe seems so surprised by his expression that he stays quiet and simply watches the view. There's a knot in his throat and if only he could vomit out the words like that night in the bar, like his screams that outmatched flying bullets, maybe this would all come to an end. Philippe Guillet is no longer a blackbird but a golden lion, and he's at his mercy.
“If it helps to hear the words,” Philippe pauses and his eyes tear directly into Alex’s broken ones. “I forgive you.”
It 's genuine. It's truthful, it's honest, and as the storm comes to an end and the waves of the ocean cease their violent currents,as the shame and guilt and self destruction fade away like stars at dawn, Alex bows his head and weeps.